


A Blind Fool's Luck

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Barebacking, Bottom Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Non-Consensual Body Modification, Omega Sam Winchester, Soulmates, Top Dean Winchester, Traumatized Sam Winchester, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25509433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Prompt: sam is an omega. or, he was. before puberty really hits, john puts him on suppressants/has him surgically altered so he doesn’t attract aggressive alphas/is put in less danger/makes their lifestyle easier. sam’s too young to really consent. his feelings of being a “freak” stem from not feeling right in his own body. this is why sam is abnormally large for an omega, this is where a lot of his self loathing stems from. dean didn’t know before and carries guilt for not stopping it. doesn’t know how to make it better, tries anything he can, which in dean’s world is a lot of pretending it didn’t happen out loud. sam gets by until he starts getting closer to 40 and it starts to get to him more than it used to. amara either gives dean THAT gift instead of bringing mary back, or rowena finds out and gives sam the spell to fix what happened to him at his choice. sam doesn’t tell dean about the change, but he can scent it. it’s obvious sam feels more comfortable in his skin again. suddenly sam smells like his dream partner. cue him dealing with that, dunno if he tells him or acts differently or what. basically it comes out that sam has always scented dean that way and then happy parts ensue.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 23
Kudos: 330





	A Blind Fool's Luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [husbro (bathwater)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bathwater/gifts).



“Anyway, that’s why I avoid hay barns on full moon nights.”

“I can’t imagine being pregnant back then. Scary.”

“Was it unsanitary? Yes. Was it particularly scarier than being a pregnant person nowadays? No.” Rowena considers Sam across her own drink, gentle. “You always gave off that energy, Samuel, so I apologize if it’s rude, but…”

“Well, I’m a beta, so that’s that.” Thin mouth, set.

“You are?” Rowena frowns. “My boy, I know you Winchesters have a natural aversion to being corrected, but alas—alas, Samuel, what gave you _that_ idea?”

Sam stares at her, confused. “What do you mean? I’ve—always.”

The bunker is quiet. Hollow, for a moment.

Sam presses, “What do you mean,” quieter, now; without breath.

~

Sam Winchester’s memory has been considered choppy for a long while. Always served as an easy way out—I forgot, I can’t remember, sorry. Made it easier to haul him from place to place, too—I told you, don’t you remember?, come on.

Sam remembers...fragments.

Shells, on the shore. Grains of sand, falling, accumulating, out of his reach.

After the cage, the wall, the trials—naturally.

But, even prior to all that.

Dean would say: ’course, you were just a kid. Nobody remembers their freakin’ childhood, Sam.

But the important bits? The real important ones? Like that night of Dad coming home, covered in his own blood, and everything had to go real fast and Sam had to apply pressure while his also-kid brother drove the car? Like pocketing that amulet, wrapping it in yesterday’s newspaper, handing it over with his heart up in his throat? Sam remembers all that.

Sam remembers—fragments.

Shards of a mirror, strewn on the floor. A clock ticking, somewhere, somehow, but you can’t seem to locate it.

Dean had been mad, for a long time. At Dad, specifically, and Sam now recognizes how uncanny that had been.

Dean, curled up with him in bed, feeding and petting him like he’s a baby all over again. And that had been nice. That had felt good—being taken care of, tender as he had been, and yeah, he _had_ _been_ weak for a while, hadn’t he? Bedbound and it had hurt to move, and Dean had to help him in the bathroom. Sponge baths, don’t get the stitches wet, Sammy.

Dean being angry, but never at Sam, back then. What a time.

Growing pains were bad, but it was okay because—of course, he’d get big like Dad and Dean, an alpha like them. But his knot never developed. And while that tortured him, he’d never say a word, never complained, because, all right, beta, you’re a beta, that’s okay. Tall for a beta, sure, but then again, he never had all these...urges they say all alphas have, so it was settled.

Sam could scent, of course, but always…cloudy. Like a veil, a wall, _something_ standing between him and—others.

So close to asking Dean to tell him _what the hell do I smell like? is it bad? how bad **is** it?_ but never going through with it (always the coward, always the shy brother, the bookish brother). Beta. Bland and logical and the pillar of society, really; he liked to tell himself that to make up for the dread of…loss. Of being left out, you don’t get it, you betas could never, and so on, and so forth.

Dean would tease just a little. Always knew that this was something so wrong about Sam that it held enough power to…well, what, exactly?

“Do you guys get wet?”

And Sam would look up and mutter, “A little?” and it was one fucking freezing December night, he _remembers_ that; warm and cozy because Dean and him had hauled enough firewood to burn them through an entire week. Scratchy woolen blankets, canned tomato soup spiked with soy sauce (it’s called “exotic”, Sammy).

Dean had nodded—at Sam, himself. Spooned more soup into his mouth, eyes drooping on their own account with how tired he obviously was. Close to a rut on top of it all; Sam could scent that. It happened, of course. Natural. Sucked, though, with them being out in the fucking woods with no one around and obviously Dean had to stay with Sam, watch out. But Dean had managed before. They all had.

Dean just said, “Hm,” and he had sounded soft, Sam thinks, like he was dreaming already, and it was warm that night, so so warm with the fireplace and the flames and the wood, cracking.

~

He expects an immediate effect and is left hanging.

Just stares up at Rowena, who looks back at him just as expectant.

She closes her spellbook to rush over to him. She grabs his face. Now that he’s kneeling, she has to look slightly _down_.

“How do you feel?”

“Uhm. Normal?”

“Is that good?” asks the witch, frowning, critical, and Sam opens his mouth but there is no reply.

How would he know?

~

It takes—days. A week, roughly.

Sam wakes to the scent of coffee and—something.

Bacon, sure, but…

He gets up, still sleep-heavy, and follows his nose.

Walks in on Dean, in the kitchen, naturally. Bed-head and his ugly-ass morning robe and slippers, like some old fart, and Dean grunts, “Coffee?” while he’s frying up two pigs’ worth of saturated fats, and Sam, he.

He’s struck by it.

Realizes, after years and years and years, and he holds himself from starting to shake by rubbing both hands over his face, and he closes his eyes in the darkness.

Hears, “Rough night?” and nods, nods.

~

“Hey.”

Both Dean and Cas look up at him.

Sam feels—on display. “Can I, uhm. I’ll take the car real quick, okay?”

“You all right there, Sammy?” and Dean turns further towards him in his chair, elbow over the back of the latter and all, and Cas just sits and stares, and, hell.

“Yeah; yeah. Just, uh—you need anything?”

“Beer?” Dean frowns, looks back at Cas for validation. “Snacks?”

“You mentioned we were out of—”

“Eggs, that’s right.” Dean snaps his finger. “Beer and eggs and those jalapeno kinda crackers, you know the ones; bright green packaging and—”

Sam supplies, “Got it,” and grabs the keys, half-jogs down into the garage.

Feels heated and stupid through all of it, and, yeah, he hasn’t really left his room these past days and all, but…is he _that_ obvious?

“JESUS—Cas, what the—?!”

“I was told to accompany you,” explains the angel, freshly materialized into the passenger seat, and seems calm and practical as he always does, but there’s a hint of patronizing _somewhere_ in there. Sam cringes for it. “Your behavior has been erratic lately, so I too believe that this is for your best.”

Sam grits, “Great,” and starts up the engine.

He contemplates not going through with it. Drives them to their usual supply shop and purchases the oddest selection of foods—as an excuse, a ruse? Hell, he doesn’t even _like_ chocolate. At least it’s vegan.

But Cas is quiet, doesn’t question. Carries the groceries without a peep, and as they’re back in the car and Sam’s got the steering wheel back in his hands, he’s got to choose.

He sighs gravelly.

Cas notices, “You are nervous.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You smell different. Does that have to do with anything? Everyone keeps acting like nothing is wrong, so I didn’t want to say anything.” Cas leans in, frowning. “ _Is_ there something wrong, Sam?”

Sam tells him, “No,” and the word is freeing. He feels his mouth curling into an almost-smile. “No, uh…not ‘wrong’ per se, I guess.”

~

“Do you need _large_ or _extra-large_?”

Sam hisses, “For the last time: put that _back_!”

“Can I help you boys?”

“Uh, we got it—thanks.” Sam waves at the shop clerk, smiles and nervous-raises his little handbasket.

“Holler if you need anything,” they say, and Sam feels just a little more hilarious.

Not his first time in a sex shop, of course; partners and curiosity and youth and all that jazz. But for _himself_?

Sam feels Cas observing him as he scans the shelves, as he picks yet another box, reads the instructions. He hesitates before he adds it to his basket.

Cas’ gears are turning so loudly and so obviously Sam gets second-hand anxiety. But the angel’s trying to be good, not be pushy, not be nosey, and Sam appreciates that.

Cas can’t help the most pressuring, though: “Does Dean know?” and Sam’s body clenches further.

He can’t even nod.

~

The knock on the door has him jumping.

“Y-yes?”

“You okay in there?”

Sam blabbers, “Don’t come in,” despite being a hundred percent sure he locked himself in properly.

Dean says, “Nah, you do your thing,” and he probably knows. Can taste it in the air, just like Sam can taste Dean on his tongue now, too. “I’ll leave some extras out in the kitchen in case you ever decide to eat food again.”

Sam croaks, “Thanks,” and maybe Dean murmurs something along the lines of how he’s welcome, but it’s muffled through the door and the heavy, steady rush of blood in Sam’s ears tunes out the rest.

Two more rounds leave him somewhat sated enough that, yeah, a shower sounds good. Some food as well. Replenish some protein.

His slick used to be watery; easily washed off. Clings to him, now, and even the fancy soap doesn’t manage to clear the scent completely. Sam sniffs his hands, fascinated. Embarrassed. They will know. But they know anyway, at this point. Can’t _not_ know, right?

Fresh set out loungewear, barefoot—kitchen. Dean made chicken.

Sam piles potatoes and gravy onto a plate, one piece of meat. He eats standing up, right by the stove. God, he’s tired. Should be more tired, considering the efforts his body is going through, but that underlying throb is yet to be silenced. He could go again right now, no problem. The thought bewilders him.

It’s…new.

“Yo.”

“Uhrm—hey. Hi.”

Dean strolls to the fridge, fishes for beer. “You want one?”

“I’m good, thanks.” Sam wipes at his mouth, clears his throat. Both hands on the counter.

“You like it?”

“Uh—what?”

“The chicken,” clarifies Dean. The bottle gives up its cap with a sharp hiss. Dean nods towards the stove. “Found the recipe on some weird girl’s blog. Y’know, algorithm,” and Sam scoffs with affection for that. Dean drinks and settles against the counter as well. “So, you still good?”

“Yeah.” Sam gets a hold of his fork and pushes his food around on his plate.

“I’d say open a window, but with this being a bunker an’ all—well.”

Silence. Dean drinks.

“So, uh—” “Did you—”

They look at each other, embarrassed.

Sam offers, “You first.”

Dean fixes him, then. Really looks straight at him, and Sam can’t remember the last time that happened. Few days back, probably. After that last hunt they did. Back when Sam still was…

And Sam’s brother inquires, “You gon’ make me ask?” and Sam heats different, deeper.

Sheepish, “Rowena,” and Dean flinches, but not with anger, but…okay, maybe a little anger.

Confusion, mostly.

Dean blinks, reels for words. “She…okay, Sam, and what, _what_ did she…?”

“It’s like, uhm. A reset? Kinda thing?”

Dean just squints.

Sam clarifies, “For my, uhm. When I was little, I—”

“No way.”

“I thought you—uhm—” and there are more words, there must be, but Dean putting his beer down _and_ coming towards him _and_ touching him, that’s—too much.

The world narrows down to the brand of Dean’s hand, to how it yanks at the waistband of Sam’s sweatpants.

To those fingers going for that familiar-old spot and finding—nothing.

Dean says, “Sam,” and sounds wounded. Keeps brushing his fingers across the unharmed skin of Sam’s pelvis where that scar used to sit, few parts of an inch shy of Sam’s pubes, and he doesn’t think on it, of course not, never did; but it’s different now, and he notices too late.

Looks up at Sam, then, and Sam looks right back at him.

Softly, “What the fuck,” and Sam gets a hold of that wrist just in time, before that hand can—

The alpha in Dean is taken aback; the brother in him looks grateful.

Again, “Sam, what the fuck,” and it’s not a question, and Sam’s eyes feel too wet.

“It’s uhm—you, you knew.” His chest is too tight. He swallows nothing. “You _knew_ , and you _never_ —”

“Couldn’t,” croaks Dean, painfully close and warming by the second while the resistance in that arm Sam’s still got to hold off doesn’t fade. “I couldn’t, God, what should I have—I let that happen to you, what _right_ should I have had to—”

“You were _just a kid_ —”

“You too!” and Sam thinks he kisses Dean, then. Thinks it’s him. Most probably.

Must be, since Sam’s always been the truly dumb one of them.

Hands into Dean’s hair and Sam stumbles, spiritually. The pans and pots behind them clatter with how Dean bumps him up against the counter, one arm around Sam’s waist, the other lost down his sweatpants, reaching between and behind.

Sam urges, “Wait, wait,” against Dean’s teeth, against Dean’s tongue, and shudders head to toe because Dean doesn’t; can’t, and Sam can’t blame him, not right now.

Can’t think, generally, with how Dean slams two of his fingers home without preamble, without anything that could be mistaken for shame or hesitation.

As Dean makes it three, Sam’s leg lifts on pure instinct.

“Jesus fuck you’re wet,” is panted, a revelation, wide-eyed and tight-throated and Sam can’t do anything but nod all stupid, wring his arms closer around his brother and drown himself in that mouth again.

Dean pushes at him, but the counter is at a bad height, so Sam can’t just throw himself onto his back like he’s apparently supposed to. It’s an awkward struggle, rushed and clumsy and Sam’s lifted leg has nowhere to go but hook around Dean’s hip, and he’s flexible but this ain’t sustainable, no way, but God, reeling the alpha in and just—

“Fuck—” Their teeth collide. “Fuck, Sam, _fuck_ —”

Sam manages, “Bed?” and maybe Dean nods, or maybe he doesn’t; it’s not a choice at this point.

Like being drunk. Very similar to that, actually—stumbling, weak knees.

Dean’s room; closer. Carelessly slammed door and Dean rids Sam of his sweats immediately, pulls them down with both hands and laps into his mouth while he does it.

Sam’s cock slaps up against his lower stomach but he can’t feel it, not really; not next to that other, way more insistent throb (deeper, wetter, burning). He wrestles out of his tee with Dean’s help and they’re still kissing through all of it, somehow, and while Sam’s going for the hem of Dean’s shirt in return, Dean already walks him backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed.

And he thinks he says, “Fuck,” and/or, “Dean,” but lets himself drop, pulls his knees up and Dean’s right there, solid and crawling over him and working his jeans open with one hand.

“Fuck.” Dean, unmistakably. Leans his face into Sam’s palm like a cat, eyes closed and, fuck, Sam can _smell_ how fucking hard he already is from just—this. “Fuck, you even know how you smell right now? You even _know_?”

Sam breathes, “Do it,” and he’s finally got the soft of Dean’s stomach exposed, got that tee shoved up above Dean’s tits and Dean’s flannel still hangs off of him and Dean growls, purrs—something—and he barrels on in, closer, dips his hips low with his knees firm on the mattress, one hand between them to make this work, and—

Sam melts.

“Fuck—”

Hands and arms for Dean, pulling him in, and it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t, just…

Dean pumps himself balls-deep in one seemingly endless push, and for once, Sam feels—right.

Thinks he sighs all weird into the crook of Dean’s neck, goes a little cross-eyed for how Dean’s desperately trying to push on with nowhere to go, with his too-heavy balls smushed up against Sam’s tailbone and the thick crown of his cock Frenching what might be Sam’s cervix and Dean growls now, for real, low and comforting like Sam’s got to be eased into this, like he has any reason to fight the alpha mounting him.

Dean doesn’t lose any time. Snaps his hips in and in and both the bed and Sam’s soul shudder with it, under it. “Don’t stop,” is a weak whisper, a tearful plea because _holy God_ , and Sam simply holds on, locks his legs over the small of Dean’s back and lets him have it.

This is what it’s like? _This_?

Hidden-frustrated, “Shit, gonna knot,” and there’s more tears because no that’s too soon, he doesn’t want it to end yet.

Dean comes up for air, for kissing. Slurps into Sam’s mouth while he bangs him out brand-new. Rocks into all those once-numb places, the fat nub Sam’s prostate has ended up swelling to over these past couple’a days, and _thank God_ for all the toys Sam had used beforehand because holy shit, Dean’s hung.

Sam knew that, of course, just like they know everything about one another, but never on this level.

Stretches him out wide, knot or not, and Sam can feel it.

Feels it popping in-out, too-fast; growing.

Dean pants, “Want me to tie?” and Sam shakes his sweaty head, no, and Dean and him think of the same thing at the same second, then—Sam can tell by the stutter of that body, the unmistakable width of Dean’s eyes.

“Fuck, I didn’t—”

“Don’t matter.”

“Fuck.” Almost-kiss; forehead to forehead and Dean’s never stopped grinding. “Fuck. Yeah? Yeah? You want that?” and Sam nods, and if it was anyone else but Dean, he’d feel terrible about it.

Will be fine, though, right? Everything’s just started settling in, no way he could…

Sam wills himself more open while his brother returns to the earlier, punishing pace, and they’re clinging to each other now, head to toe, and Sam can’t help but groan in frustration once Dean has the mental capacity to shorten his strokes, to keep himself from catching his still to be fully popped knot inside Sam’s ass. Sam feels him coming, then, not long after; feels the violent throb and gush trapped inside of him and his omega instincts bloom to something entirely new for that.

Dean doesn’t stop fucking him, not for a beat, and it’s easy to come on that. On the fantasy (reality) of being fucked full, being loaded up. And while it’s not as much as it’d be if they tied, it’s still a ridiculous amount and turns everything even sloppier, so fucking wet and thick with full, nasty sounds on each downstroke and they both groan, helplessly, and Dean shifts, pushes himself up and Sam clings to his arm, his slick-darkened tee.

Dean tells him, “Fuck, I felt that,” and Sam clenches on purpose just to see that face crumbling. Just to get Dean to curse, softly, under his breath, and fuck him a little meaner.

Short, choppy thrusts, and the alpha should be too sensitive, should require a break or something, but, no.

Clamps a strong hand around Sam’s hip and asks, “Like this? Huh?” and Sam hiccups, sobs, something.

They tie on Dean’s third orgasm, and Sam enters a different sphere through that. Trembles, endlessly, with Dean burying him and cooing at him and getting him so so fucking full, and Sam should be dried up by now but he’s not—feels his slick soaking past the impossible width of Dean’s knot, the constant dribble of it from his own numbed-out, forgotten cock.

Sighs, happy, with Dean rocking them together. Grinding deep into every single spot Sam didn’t know he had, would have developed if he would have been given the chance.

Dean doesn’t pull out once his knot goes down. Not hard all the way anymore, but the weight’s still there, and Sam’s barely conscious but Dean gives a warning growl for him trying to milk him, egg him on again.

“Need a break, fuck. You tryna kill me?”

They roll to their sides eventually, dozing on and off. Not letting go of each other, no way. Dean’s made it out of his clothes at some point, and on a more lucid moment, Sam marvels at that.

Runs his hand across Dean’s chest, that old tattoo. Has Dean mirroring the motion, blindly, half-asleep, and flinches for the rough drift over his nipple.

“Oh, sorry.” Dean hesitates. “They hurt?”

Sam admits, “A little,” and gets a thumb playing with it, a thoughtfully humming brother.

“You growing ’em?”

“Fuck, I hope not.”

Has Dean’s mouth on it not soon after and is gonna cry it feels so weird. Sore and tender and Dean suckles, gently, and kneads at him like a cub.

He’s still-again soaked. Not the come leaking out, he thinks, though; has a feeling that’s all sucked up deep, kept for good.

Sam groans, buries his face in a pillow, in Dean’s armpit.

Dean soothes, “Ten minutes, okay?” and Sam huffs under his impatient-yet-grateful, “Okay, yeah,” with Dean’s hand rubbing circles into his lower belly.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote [a prequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29313957)!


End file.
